Makes No Difference

By Brad Rose

Orange fingernails on nine out of ten. One thumb missing. She’s slept with 241 truckers, not counting her husband. When I get up enough nerve to ask her to dance, she says “One of my legs ain’t real; guess which one.” From where I’m standing the rodeo-print mini-skirt can’t hide anything, but I say to her, “I can’t tell which is fake and which is real.” She leans in so close, I can smell the hops of the warm Budweisers, and she says to me, “When it comes to men, honey, neither can I. But like legs, it don’t make no difference.”